


there's a piece of you that's here with me

by jessalae



Category: The Cabin in the Woods (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You're not a hostage here, Dana," the Director says. "You can leave any time you want."</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"And do what, exactly?" Dana asks.</em>
</p><p>An AU where Dana shoots Marty, and has to live with the consequences. WARNING for some violence and gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a piece of you that's here with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ijemanja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/gifts).



> Thank you to R for betaing on short notice! Title is taken from "Ocean Avenue" by Yellowcard.

People describe sounds as being _like a gunshot_ all the time — cars backfiring, tree branches breaking, ice cracking on a frozen lake. The analogy is clear: the sound of a gunshot is sharp, loud, and gone in an instant.

As far as Dana can tell, though, none of those comparisons even come close to what a gunshot is really like. None of them include the ringing in your ears; the wave of recoil that slams into your chest like the bass turned up too loud at a party; the echoing silence afterwards.

And, in that silence, the soft, sodden sound of your friend’s lifeless body collapsing onto the stone floor.

The room has stopped shaking, but little bits of shattered rock still rain down onto Dana’s head. She stands frozen in place, her whole body an over-wound spring. There’s a whimpering noise behind her, but she can’t turn to look, can’t take her eyes off Marty’s crumpled form slowly bleeding out on the floor. 

The Director approaches slowly, like Dana’s a wild animal, and lays a careful hand on Dana’s shoulder. “You made the right choice,” she says softly. She takes the gun out of Dana’s hand, untangling her fingers from the grip and checking the safety. “Now, time to go downstairs and see what we can do to fix this.”

She turns back to the hallway, then takes a step backwards. Dana looks: there’s a werewolf huddled in the doorway, trying to hide in the shadows, not nearly as threatening now that the Ancient Ones have stopped their rumbling. It convulses, growls, and then shrinks, fur disappearing and claws retracting as it turns into a shivering, naked teenaged boy. His mouth and hands are crusted with dried blood, and when he looks up at Dana, his eyes are full of fear and confusion.

The Director sighs. “Another one we’ll have to replace,” she says, and shoots him between the eyes.

It takes Dana a minute to realize the horrible scream echoing off the walls is her own.

***

The little room where they’re keeping her is simple and monochromatic, like an especially boring budget hotel room. 

"Standard issue," the Director says, settling herself into the ugly armchair in the corner and gesturing around the room. "A lot of our employees stay here for extended periods, especially in the zoology department. That's what these rooms are for.”

"Not just for your hostages, then?" Dana asks. Her voice is hoarse. They’ve given her antibiotics for her wounds and sleeping pills to stop her screaming, but nothing to soothe her throat. 

"You're not a hostage here, Dana," the Director says. "You can leave any time you want."

"And do what, exactly?" Dana asks.

She traces a finger over the quilting on the blanket, not wanting to look at the Director as she listens to the explanation. Dana has been erased from all public records, all social media, and the memories of all her family, friends, and acquaintances have been wiped. If she wishes, those memories can be un-wiped, and she can resume her life, as long as she never mentions the equally erased existences of her dead friends.

“You can try to tell the world what happened here, but I wouldn’t suggest it, unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a mental institution,” the Director finishes. “You will not be believed. We’ll see to that.” 

"So my options are to pretend this never happened, forget my friends, and probably go crazy -- or remember, and have everybody think I'm crazy," Dana says in a flat voice.

“There is a third option, due to your… unique situation.” The Director leans forward. “We lost quite a few good employees in this incident, and even when we’re not in a state of emergency, we always prefer to hire from the pool of those who are already familiar with our mission.”

Dana can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You want me to work for you?”

“You would need some training first, of course,” the Director says. “But with the losses we’ve taken, we’ll be rebuilding the organization from the ground up. There will be excellent opportunities for advancement.”

“I want everyone involved with this entire fucking organization to die a slow, painful death,” Dana says slowly. “How could you trust me not to sabotage the entire operation?”

“Because you understand how important our work is,” the Director says. “It’s why you pulled that trigger, why you chose to save the world at the expense of your friends. And,” she says, standing, “it’s the only way to ensure that your friends didn’t die in vain.”

She walks out of the room, leaving Dana sitting there on the bed, speechless.

***

Everything about the Organization’s underground training center is forgettable. It’s grey and featureless and bland, bland, bland, and Dana hates it. She wants desperately to see the sun again, but at the same time she feels like walking out into the open air and seeing that the world has gone on without her might bring back all the memories she’s locked up tight.

She decides to specialize in Operations, and spends finals week cramming the details of ancient prophecies and arcane rituals into her head. She coasts her way through her Chaos Theory class, finding it easier to imagine and engineer disasters in the abstract. The other recruits hate her for ruining the curve in Intermediate Ancient Sumerian. She doesn’t care; she talks to them as little as possible anyway.

The psychology classes she takes her third semester are the hardest ones for her to handle. The endless lectures on personality types, motivation, and behavioral conditioning all boil down to one thing: duping innocent kids into walking willingly into certain doom. Every time they talk about the five essential roles, matching them to Big 5 profiles and Myers-Briggs types and MMPI scores, visions flash through her mind: Jules when she was still a brunette, Kurt just before a big football game, Marty rolling a joint in their freshman dorm. Then more images, of them bleeding, screaming, dying.

When she passes her final round of exams, the Director offers to send her photos of her friends as a graduation present -- the Organization’s secure network is the only place those photos still exist. Dana turns her down. Even the blank, grey walls of her room are better than remembering.

***

She’s placed in an entry-level job, and distinguishes herself during her first ritual by successfully engineering a fight between the Athlete and the Fool. They’re too busy punching each other to notice the rustling sound of the Scarecrow Folk creeping up behind them, and everything goes smoothly from there. She gets a dozen pats on the back and a nice fat bonus, and from then on it seems like she’s getting promotions every few months. They fly her to Argentina, to Sweden, even to Japan, putting her through more training in each place, always in a different aspect of the business. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s being groomed for leadership.

She’s been with the Organization for two years, but she’s still not sure where to find the Director’s office. The woman just seems to appear whenever she wants to, and Dana has never felt the need to seek her out. Eventually, after questioning a few of the Maintenance workers, she finds her way to an out-of-the-way corner of the Facility’s lowest level.

“Dana,” the Director says, looking up from a pile of resumes. “Come in.”

“What are you planning for me?” Dana asks.

The Director smiles. “You’re the shining star of the Operations department. Work backwards. Figure it out.”

“I know you want me in a management position,” Dana says, “But I’ve been trained on the administration of nearly every department. You’re the only one who oversees everything.” She tilts her head to the side. “You’re not planning on retiring, are you?”

“Not for another decade or so,” the Director says. But you’re right -- I do want you doing my job.” She unlocks a drawer in her desk and hands Dana a thick folder. The label on the cover reads _FACILITY 16 SPECS_.

“We’re opening a new branch,” the Director says as Dana leafs through the contents of the folder. Blueprints, creature profiles, security briefings: from the level of detail, it looks like the new facility must be almost finished.

“In Bermuda?” Dana asks, studying a map.

“A smaller island a few miles southwest,” the Director says. “We wanted to take advantage of the Triangle as much as possible.”

Dana closes the file. “You would trust me to run a whole facility?”

“You have a few successful runs under your belt, and you’ve been trained by the best. And, like I said before, you understand the importance of our mission better than most of our other employees.”

“Better than anyone,” Dana says. A door in the back of her mind starts to swing open, threatening to let out the memories inside, and she slams it shut.

“Better than most,” the Director repeats, and her eyes flicker to the wall of her office. There between all the diplomas and commendations is a single framed photograph, yellowed with age. The five teenagers are wearing bell bottom jeans and tie-dye in a dozen different colors. The girl on the end has red hair that hangs down to her waist. “You find comfort in knowing your friends didn’t die in vain.”

“When will the new facility be ready?” Dana asks.

“Not for a few more months -- you’ll be here for this year’s ritual,” the Director says. “Then there will be a hiring process, and time to fill your menagerie. Your collection should be heavily maritime and tropical. I would start researching now, if there’s anything you’d particularly like.”

“I sunburn really easily.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be underground.” The Director turns back to her pile of resumes. “I’ll call you in for a meeting when it’s all settled. For now, go do your job.”

***

It isn’t exactly standard operating procedure for a Director to spend any time in the Control Room, but the employees at the Bermuda facility have established quite a close relationship during their months of preparation. It seems only right that everyone should be included in the celebration of their first successful ritual. Pearman, head of Chemical, pops down to her office on his way to get another bottle of cachaça out of the department liquor cabinet.

“Just for ten minutes,” he wheedles. “It would mean a lot to the team.”

“You all seem to be doing just fine without me,” she says.

“Hey, it went even better than expected. Even Electrical’s weird thing with the cliff that you suggested. I think you’ve earned the right to blow off some steam.” The Director’s face goes blank, and Pearman changes tactics. “We’d even be willing to sit through a closing pep talk. Something about how we’re doing the most important work in the world, yada yada yada.”

“No,” the Director says. “Thank you. Enjoy your celebration.” She doesn’t raise her voice, or even frown, but something about the way she says it makes Pearman give up.

The Director of the Bermuda team waits for her office door to close, then pulls a photo out of her desk drawer. She hadn’t asked for it, but somehow it had ended up in her moving boxes anyway. She looks at the kids in the photo, their smiles, their calm expressions, and she knows their sacrifice meant something.

She remembers.


End file.
